


Honey and Oak

by Radenierafire



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, But only a little, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Light Angst, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Scenting, Scents & Smells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:20:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radenierafire/pseuds/Radenierafire
Summary: Jaskier smells like honey and oak. And something else, though, Geralt isn't certain what that is.It was fairly common knowledge that witchers had heightened senses. Some people, perhaps, exaggerated the fact. They made claims that were not true for the sake of perpetuating the hunter’s reputations. A claim that they made that was true? Witchers could smell fear . . . and every other emotion.And Geralt was not the average witcher, at all. He was changed more so than anyone from his school. Than any other witcher he’d ever met. His eyes were sharper, ears heard more, taste and touch would often overwhelm him if he didn’t have such control of himself . . . and then there was smell.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 103
Kudos: 1109





	Honey and Oak

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, tbh. This isn't beta'd. I'm sorry.

It was fairly common knowledge that witchers had heightened senses. Some people, perhaps, exaggerated the fact. They made claims that were not true for the sake of perpetuating the hunter’s reputations. No, witchers could not see through things, or hear miles and miles away. However, there was quite a bit of truth to those statements people made in fear. The reflexes and senses of the average witcher were most definitely enhanced. They could see accurately in most ranges of light, and when they couldn’t they had a potion to fix that. They could hear the softest of pins drop into the smoothes of blankets. Their senses of taste were heightened to immediately register when poison had passed their tongues, and touch to know exactly where they’d been cut to ensure they checked on their wounds. Every bit of them needed for survival was pulled out, made better and then pushed back in, making the average witcher nearly animalistic in their senses.

And Geralt was not the average witcher, at all. He was changed more so than anyone from his school. Than any other witcher he’d ever met. His eyes were sharper, ears heard more, taste and touch would often overwhelm him if he didn’t have such control of himself . . . and then there was smell.  
Geralt wasn’t certain why his sense of smell was the strongest. Though his other senses were as strong as they were, he often found it helpful to have access to his potions and spells in the heat of a fight. However, he very rarely used anything to help him where scents came along. He was likely to smell a monster before he was to see it, and monsters were not the only thing he could pick up.  
The feelings that humans were so bursting with often left scents so poignant, Geralt could have sworn they were boiled into essence and poured on his tongue. 

Certain smells he was used to, fear, anger, pain. They were the smells he was greeted with each time he walked into a tavern or an inn. They were sharp when he collected his payments, so often still visibly marked by the hunt. Lemons seemed to have been freshly cut nearby as an innkeeper looked into the pitch-black eyes Cat left him with. Manure seemed to be held beneath his nose when he asked for proper compensation when a hunt was more difficult than proposed. No man enjoyed being called a liar. No matter how calm or simplistic Geralt kept his tone and words, when he explained that he was there to take down one siren, not five . . . Anger was potent. Almost as potent as the sharp pepper scent of pain when the man’s arm was broken for being a bit to bold in his fury. 

Geralt wasn’t oblivious to the satisfaction that followed though. It may have mixed in beneath the other scents, but humans always found the slightest bit of validation when Geralt was violent. As though he was proving them correct . . .

Some smells come less often but aren’t unpleasant. Lust, excitement, competition. When he met the kind of person who offered themselves up to a vampire, or found werewolves beautiful. If the way their eyes never left his chest wasn’t enough of a tell, he could smell it on them. That they were terrified of him, and believed him to be a monster. Yet, they were so very aroused by the idea of Geralt turning that violence and danger on them. They always wafted smells of cinnamon, and oregano his way. Those scents always reminded him of the spices royals used to overseason their food.  
Admittedly, Geralt often tagged smells to people. Most people had a smell inherently specific to them. Yennefer, for instance, always smelled of Lilac and Gooseberries. And the soft strong spice of magic. Cayan. 

Then there was Jaskier. 

The bard was rather good at masking his natural scent. He had an affinity for those types of oils used while bathing that left him smelling like flowers. Lavender seemed such an offending smell when it was covering Jaskier’s skin, rather than allowing himself to smell as he did. Geralt often wished that Jaskier wouldn’t use them, but they seemed to make him happy. A bit more confident even, and Geralt had to admit that they helped their bedrolls smell less like dirt and grime. So, he didn’t complain. 

Yet, every once in a while, when they were on the road for long bouts of travel and Jaskier ran out of his soaps, the bard would bathe in the river with nothing but water to wash his skin. Times like that left Jaskier with only his natural scent. Geralt would never be able to admit that he longed for times like that. Jaskier smelled like honey. And oak. Almost like the lute he so loved. The scents were soft and sweet. It seemed so fitting to Geralt that the bard be fragrant this way. If, when they had to share a bed on the road, Geralt laid a bit too close to catch that smell coming off of his bard? That was his business.

What didn’t seem fitting was that Jaskier had never smelled like fear or anger. Or rather, that he never smelled like that because of Geralt. Monsters came their way, and Jaskier had a sane amount of caution about them. Usually. However, even when Geralt was angry and yelled at him, Jaskier never did smell like he was afraid of him. Never seemed angry. Geralt didn’t know why. Every man he’d met was afraid of him. Even if they did a good job of hiding it. Even when the fear was born out of a respect for how much damage Geralt could do. It was always there. 

And yet? 

Even when they had first met, before Geralt softened for the bard’s snarky comments and gentle eyes, Jaskier didn’t seem scared of the sharp edges of Geralt’s personality that should have so easily cut him down.   
Instead, the bard also smelled of something warm. Something unexpected. Something like vanilla. It was the softest and sweetest of scents, one of the most pure and yet somehow- Geralt had never smelled it from a person. Only in nature where it was found.  
He wasn’t sure what to do with that.

He didn’t know what that scent meant.  
So, he tried to take notice of when it was more prominent.   
When Jaskier was playing his music for a crowd in an inn, he and Geralt would make eye contact. Amidst the stench of disgust that flowed from the patrons gathered near Geralt, the soft smell wafted in his direction. It would be the faintest of reprieves from the unwavering hatred and judgement around him. Jaskier would play particularly enthusiastically and Geralt wondered if this was simply what Jaskier’s joy smelled like.

When Jaskier was feeding Roach. Jaskier always told the horse stories as he fed her, and sometimes they would make Geralt laugh. His laughter always seemed to startle Jaskier. He always expected that fear to show up. It never did. Even though Roach herself smelled of salt and hair, no particularly strong smells for Geralt to find, he would have to turn his head as the sweet aroma hit him. He’d look up at Jaskier who was dutifully holding Roach an apple and wonder what caused it this time. Geralt wondered if humor had a scent. If that was what this was?

When Jaskier was cold and Geralt would wrap his own cloak around the bard, Jaskier would look up at him with such a smile that Geralt couldn’t breathe correctly. The scent didn’t help then, as it seemed to suffocate him more. While Geralt struggled to catch his breath, passing off his struggle as a cough, Jaskier would thank and praise Geralt for being so generous. He would commend Geralt for being selfless enough to give Jaskier his own cloak. Geralt wondered if gratitude would taste like the vanilla bean Jaskier had once ground up to put in Geralt’s hair during a wash. He wondered why Jaskier felt so thankful for something like a cloak.

It wasn’t selfless, witchers didn’t get cold.  
There were some times when Jaskier smelled like chamomile. Sadness. Geralt hated those moments. Few and far apart as they were, Geralt often tried to make them go away with a story. Jaskier was always begging him for recounts of his adventures, and though he wasn’t keen on giving them if it would fill the air with the scent of vanilla instead, Geralt was happy to. When the smell of chamomile was particularly strong he would use more details. Jaskier would always seem surprised at first, but then he would pull out a journal and start scribbling away half written lyrics and poems to eventually get turned into ballads. 

For some reason the chamomile always got stronger when he started a story, but slowly ebbed away by the end.  
Geralt hadn’t the faintest of clues why. 

Just like he didn’t know what vanilla was the scent of.

The bard was odd, after all.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There it was. That vanilla, again.

“What are you feeling?” He asked simply, looking across the tavern table to Jaskier. The bard had just finished his set, and had plopped down across from Geralt. He was flush, his face red and grinning. When he turned his attention to Geralt a blanket of _That Smell_ washed over him. He couldn’t prevent himself from asking the question gnawing at his mind.

Jaskier’s grin faltered and he tilted his head in confusion. “What?” 

“Right now.” Geralt said, his voice tight. “In this moment.” He clarified and seemed to be searching Jaskier’s face. He was trying so hard to see what was right in front of his face, but no amount of Cat would give him the ability to understand what this was. “What are you feeling?”

“Well- happy, probably.” Jaskier said, arching his brow slightly. “You?”

Geralt ignored the question, instead his eyes raked over the bard’s face and then around the room. “No, it’s not happiness.” He muttered quietly. Happiness was an earthy smell. Like freshly dampened grass in the dew of the morning. It was present, but that wasn’t what this was.

All night, Jaskier had been smiling and joyous, doing well and seemingly having fun. He’d winked and flirted with the patrons receiving his fair share of attention and praise. Geralt knew that those things all mattered to Jaskier. That getting that affection made Jaskier feel warm and loved. 

And yet?

It wasn’t until he had come over and sat down with Geralt that that smell had appeared. Could this scent have something to do with Geralt? Probably not, right? Jaskier wasn’t the first person lured to Geralt with a sense of adventure, though he had definitely stayed the longest. But wanderlust surely didn’t have a scent. It wasn’t a feeling, it was a want-

Humans were so fucking confusing.

Something like concern started to creep it’s way over Jaskier’s face. “Geralt? What isn’t happiness?”

“Nevermind.”

  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re drunk.” He sighed.

Jaskier grinned and lolled his head to the side, letting it rest on Geralt’s chest. “Yes.” He was held like a bride in Geralt’s arms. He had to be, he couldn’t very well walk on his own right now . . . 

Jaskier had dragged Geralt to a festival of music. The bard had been so overjoyed with the opportunity to go and celebrate his art that Geralt couldn’t find it in himself to tell the bard no. The festival wasn’t out of the way, anyway, and they weren’t currently on a contract. Not to mention, it was in a busy town full of bored nobles who would surely pay a witcher to rid them of whatever nuisance was bothering them be it an actual monster or a pack of wild dogs. There were too many excuses that allowed them this detour. So, they decided to go.   
Jaskier had dressed Geralt up in fancy garments that left him feeling vulnerable and uncomfortable. With no armor to protect him, and the fabric holding him tighter than half of his leathers did, he felt almost ridiculous. Truly, he did not understand why people would dress themselves like this. Surely it was for whatever fashion Jaskier seemed so fond of, and yet, Geralt could hardly find himself to admire it on anyone other than the bard. Still, he held back his complaints as Jaskier dragged him along. That beautiful green smell of happiness flooded the air when they entered the grounds on which the festival was being held that Geralt couldn’t help but just smile.

Of course, his smile turned to amusement as Jaskier fought to compete with the laziest of nobles. These men spent their days drinking, and still the bard did his best to match them. But Jaskier spent his days travelling and his nights singing for his supper. If he’d once had a high tolerance for alcohol from his lounging around, being on the path with Geralt had all but gotten rid of it. His lips loosened and Geralt’s humor turned to exasperation as Jaskier tried to instigate trouble via commenting on the size of another man’s dick. 

Geralt had scooped him up and carried him back to the tavern over his shoulder. 

When he’d tried to set the bard down as they walked into the tavern, Jaskier swayed twice and promptly fell on his ass. Though it was tempting to leave him there after their evening, Geralt had hoisted him up. He pushed one of Jaskier’s arms over his shoulders, and then slipped an arm under the bard’s knees. Jaskier had laid his head against Geralt’s neck, face buried into the witcher’s neck. 

They got quite a few stares as they walked through to the room they had bought for the night. 

Geralt almost felt drunk as well. It wasn’t from alcohol but rather from inhaling the smell coming from Jaskier. That soft, sweet vanilla was mesmerizing. Borderline intoxicating. It almost seemed stronger. Or rather- less refrained. It was driving Geralt crazy. He tried to assume that it was stronger because Jaskier was so close, but he couldn’t fool himself. This feeling- whatever it was that made Jaskier smell like this was something he tried to hide. Now that he was drunk, he couldn’t. He didn’t have the wherewithal to keep it pushed down. Geralt looked at the bard as they walked up the stairs. “Are you happy?”

“Of course,” Jaskier grinned and looked up at Geralt. As they made eye contact the smell got stronger.

He had to roll his eyes, if nothing more than to break their eye contact. It seemed like too much with the way Jaskier was looking at him. Geralt laid Jaskier out on the bed, carefully undressing him to his underclothes. “What- kind of happy?” He tried to ask in a way that Jaskier would understand.

The bard, being completely useless, looked up and smiled widely. “The best kinda happy.” 

Geralt huffed. That wasn’t even slightly helpful.

As he finished undressing Jaskier, the scent shifted, almost to that of an apple pastry. Vanilla, which Geralt didn’t know. And Cinnamon. Which he did. Jaskier was rather . . . touch-heavy when he was drunk. His hands were gently smoothing up and down Geralt’s arms until the witcher was done helping him get ready for bed. Geralt took a step back and folded Jaskier’s clothes away.  
Jaskier arched a brow and looked up at Geralt, “Come on witcher, finish the job.” He challenged, glancing down to the last bit of clothes covering him.   
Cinnamon was the sharp scent of lust. 

It was almost suffocating coming from Jaskier. 

“You’re drunk.” Geralt breathed.

Jaskier shrugged, repeating, “Yes.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Geralt realized that most negative feelings tasted sort of like citrus. Fear, like a lemon. Panic, the same but sharper. Like the peel, of the most unripe fruit. Geralt could enjoy fruit, though he had to pick it at just the most perfect of times. Too early and the sour felt like it was burning his tongue, too late and it was so sweet his teeth may well have been rotting. Even so, he didn’t like the smell of citrus at all. Especially not regret. Regret, which smelled like what Jaskier reeked of right now. 

What was that, oranges?

The bard had all but been dancing around him all day. They’d left the in early, and taken off on the road before the sun was even up. Geralt was surprised that he received no complaints, he knew well that Jaskier’s head must have been pounding as he tried to recover from the previous night. Rather than complain, Jaskier had hopped up, and helped pack. He helped gather not only his own things, but Geralt’s as Geralt bathed and dressed for their travels. By the time he was ready to go, Jaskier had all but packed all of their things and readied Roach for travel.  
The help was appreciated.

The silence and overwhelming smell of oranges was not.

Jaskier shuffled some and walked quickly to keep up with Geralt and Roach.  
Geralt finally huffed, “What is it bard? I can practically hear you thinking.”

Jaskier jumped slightly at the sound of Geralt’s voice, though he seemed grateful for the permission to speak. Or rather, the invitation to. The bard hardly needed Geralt’s permission to open his mouth, and this they both knew very well. Jaskier cleared his throat dramatically, “If I- made you uncomfortable, last night, I would like to offer my sincerest apologies.” He explained. “I- perhaps- requested more of you than either of us would have liked me to-” He started and Geralt understood.

The bard was afraid that Geralt would think he wanted sex. He regretted putting the idea in Geralt’s mind that it was something he found enticing. It was rather laughable. And yet. Geralt wasn’t laughing. He sighed, “You were drunk.” He excused. It was an easy dismissal. Of course, Geralt didn’t take Jaskier seriously at his word. The bard was intoxicated. They had become familiar, and Jaskier was feeling a bit aroused after a night of partying and fun. Why else would he have propositioned a monster? Geralt glanced down at the bard and offered a short nod, “I do not expect your desires to be the same now that your judgement is no longer impaired.” He assured.

Citrus and chamomile was not a good mix at all. 

Jaskier hummed quietly and finally nodded in return. “I was drunk.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Jaskier.”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“How do you feel about Vanilla?” 

“Hmm?”

Geralt couldn’t take it. There was a fire, and a horse, and the guts of the monster that had tried it’s damndest to get rid of him, and above all of this, Jaskier still smelled sweet. A sweet smell so strong that Geralt nearly couldn’t smell anything else. Geralt didn’t know what to do with it. With himself. It was a very good scent but it left him so confused, that he hardly could enjoy it. Especially now, sitting on a log at the edge of their camp and carefully using a rag and a bucket of water to clean himself of the Kikimora’s blood he was covered in. The vanilla should come as a relief, allowing him to feel more comfortable. 

Instead it simply festered his exhaustion. He hated feeling . . . stupid, for lack of a more eloquent term. “The smell- the taste- how do you feel about vanilla?” He asked. His tone bordered on harsh, but Jaskier didn’t seem bothered by that. 

He did, however, seem bothered by the question itself. Why was the bard blushing? Why did he smell like the sweet mint of embarrassment? There was no Orange. He didn’t regret whatever it was he was embarrassed by- “It’s my favorite of flavors. And my favorite of smells.” Jaskier said quietly. He looked up at Geralt as if waiting for something. He received no response from the witcher.

Geralt just regarded Jaskier carefully.

So, Jaskier kept rambling, “Not that I myself could be considered very vanilla,” he hummed. He laughed there, amused by his own joke. The laugh choked and died as Geralt did not join in. Jaskier hurried to add, “But there is something sweet about the taste of it, about the smell. Something that makes me feel warm and comforted. It reminds me of a lot of things.”

“What does it remind you of?”  
He had to pause and think. Geralt watched the bard sit in such thoughtful silence for a moment before he started to speak again. “The wax burnings we used to light at home in Lettenhove,” he said, a faint smile on his face. “I don’t have many good memories from home, but I once had a maid who allowed me to help light those candles. I enjoyed it very much.” He commented. Jaskier glanced up at Geralt, cleared his throat, seemingly brought back to the present with the eye contact. He continued to list, a bit more briefly now, “the sweet smells of warm pastries and pies, you, the bathhouse in that town we stopped in so long ago. You remember the one, it was so large and smelled quite good, didn’t it?”

Geralt tilted his head to the side, displaying his confusion more evidently than he usually seemed capable of. “Me?”

Ah. Geralt could all but taste the mint on his tongue. 

“Uh- Well- Yes. You. You- for some reason smell like vanilla a bit, to me. When you aren’t covered in monster bits and such.” Jaskier muttered and waved his hand in a vague gesture to Geralt.

“How do you know what I smell like?” He asked curiously.   
Jaskier looked over at Geralt, seeming to check and see if there was any anger in his expression. When he was certain there wasn’t, the bard became a bit exasperated. “We’ve shared a bed Geralt, and though we leave it unspoken there are things I’m bound to notice when you are the world's most insistent cuddler as you rest. I also happen to know that you take a breath every sixteenth second when you’re sleeping because it warms my neck.”

The mint started to fade. Vanilla flooded the camp. Geralt frowned. 

“I do not understand you at all, bard.”

“No. But you love me.” Jaskier shrugged, both scents started to fade. Slowly they were both replaced by chamomile. 

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, he turned them on Jaskier. “Love-” He said evenly.   
Jaskier tilted his head and arched a brow. “Forgive me Geralt, I know. You don’t use such words.” He muttered.  
Mint again.

“No- Do you love the smell of vanilla?” Geralt asked, a bit of urgency in his voice.   
Jaskier regarded him carefully, as if trying to see if this was a trap of some kind. Geralt nearly cowered under such a suspicious gaze from Jaskier. Finally, Jaskier nodded. “Yes.” He said. Only, the way he said it made it seem as though the answer carried a weight that Geralt didn’t understand. 

He grunted, “Hmm.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something changed. Something about his bard had shifted, and Geralt still didn’t know why. As they travelled together, Jaskier became quieter. In his every behavior. He spoke less. His movements seemed smaller, more calculated. Like he was trying to lessen the amount of space he took up. He seemed to sing more often, but he used less words. Instead he seemed to be constantly humming. Never loud enough for Geralt to understand if the melody was supposed to be happy.

Judging by the smell of chamomile? It probably wasn’t.

Sitting in a small room above a tavern where they weren’t wanted, the smell of disgust and hatred was so pungent downstairs that it was wafting into their room. It mixed and mingled with the smell of sorrow emanating off of Jaskier. Geralt felt nauseous at the concoction of smells it created. He laid down in the bed they had, hand over his face to try and block out some of the stench. It was small. It would be a night of holding close to the bard. Of being suffocated by Jaskier’s sadness.

Jaskier was sat over by the fireplace. After dinner he had come up here and pulled his lute out, starting to strum and play quietly to the flames of the fire rather than staying downstairs to play for the people in the tavern. Despite everything, it seemed that if Geralt wasn’t welcome downstairs, Jaskier didn’t want to be there either.

Jaskier glanced up from across the room. He stopped playing abruptly and looked over to what part of Geralt he could see beneath Geralt’s hand. “I suppose your favorite smell is lilac, then?” He asked quietly, his eyes searching Geralt’s face. 

The conversation by the fireside was never far from Geralt’s mind, so it didn’t take much to recall what Jaskier was speaking in reference to, but that certainly didn’t make it any less confusing. How on earth had the bard come to that conclusion? “Pardon?”

“Your favorite smell. Er- smells.” Jaskier said evenly. “Lilac? And Gooseberries?”

Geralt thought for a moment and shook his head, “Why would that be my favorite smell?” He asked quietly. 

He could almost feel the bard roll his eyes. “Because you’ve said that that’s what Yennefer smells like.” 

Geralt shifted and propped himself up on an elbow, looking over at the bard. He simply observed him for a few moments. Things certainly had changed. He noted the way Jaskier was slouched on a chair by the fire, rather than splayed out in the bed. He saw the lute being held in a manner that covered Jaskier’s torso. As though the bard were hiding behind it. He heard the pounding of Jaskier’s heartbeat in his chest. It must have been going twice as fast as it normally did. “Yennefer?” Geralt repeated quietly.

And then he smelled manure. Stronger than what was coming through the door. This anger was coming from Jaskier. 

“Yes, Geralt. Yennefer. I suppose your favorite smell is also based on the person you love, so is it Lilac and Gooseberries, then?” He said, his tone almost sharp. “As you seem too thick to answer me directly, I’ll admit to having put in a request back home for some candles to be made for you. Seeing as the day we met was 10 years ago, to the day, in a month’s time, I intended to celebrate it. I realize that was foolish, but I’ve already paid, and I suppose the very least I can do is make sure they smell of your favorite scents-”

Geralt stared at him blankly. “You recall the exact date we met?” 

“Yes. Of course, I do. You know that. It was my greatest day, meeting you. Get that look off of your face, I am not angry with you.” Jaskier said.

“But you are.” Geralt corrected quietly, trying desperately to put this all together in a manner that made sense. “Angry, I mean. You are angry with- someone-”

Jaskier scoffed, “Myself.” 

Which didn’t make any sense to Geralt. Why would Jaskier be angry with himself for a sentimental celebration? Of all of the stupid and emotional things Jaskier did, this was what he held himself accountable for? Geralt stared at him blankly, slowly recounting their conversations while Jaskier sat in angry silence.

When Geralt finally played out the conversation they were currently having he paused. “Also.” He breathed almost silently.

“What?”

“You said also. That you supposed my favorite smell was _also_ based on the person I love.” Geralt said, his eyes trained carefully on Jaskier. The bard didn’t waver beneath his gaze the way so many did.

“I was there.” Jaskier muttered angrily. “I know what I said.”

There was that mint from before.

Geralt felt something break as it all finally fit into place. 

Vanilla was the scent that Jaskier connected to Love, so somehow it became the smell of his. Each and every time that Jaskier felt himself love so strongly, Geralt smelled that scent. Every time Jaskier felt that love for Geralt. Who smelled like vanilla. It was all some odd circle that warped the smell of Jaskier’s love into the smell that Jaskier loved the most. Which happened to be associated with Geralt because Geralt was the person that Jaskier loved. 

Fuck human emotions. They were a damn mess.

“You love me.” Geralt breathed, sitting up all the way and looking over at Jaskier in slight surprise. 

The bard watched him carefully before nodding slowly. “Obviously.” He agreed. 

Geralt had to bite his tongue against snapping that, no. It most certainly was not obvious. At all. Geralt had no idea what was happening, and it wasn’t fair that Jaskier be so upset with him when Jaskier was the one who refused to put into words the sentiments he was feeling. 

There was silence.

They simply stared at one another for a moment that may have stretched a minute or an hour and neither would know. They sat as though frozen. Jaskier simply hoped that whatever it was that Geralt was searching for was in his expression. Geralt gazed at him intently. 

Finally, Geralt stood and stalked over to Jaskier, pulling the bard up to his feet by his doublet. “My favorite smell is Honey, you idiot.” He snarled.

Jaskier’s brow knit and he opened his mouth to speak more, but Geralt took it as an invitation to capture Jaskier’s lips in a kiss. 

For the briefest of moments, Geralt was convinced that Jaskier was going to pull away from him. Or smack him. Or argue through their kiss. Instead, the bard slowly relaxed. Geralt wrapped one arm around the small of Jaskier’s back and used the other to hold the side of his neck. Geralt’s thumb brushed over Jaskier’s jaw as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. 

It was Jaskier who pulled back and looked up at Geralt. “You- what is this- what are we- I thought-”

Geralt shook his head. “I didn’t know. What that smell was. No one has ever-” He started and paused. It sounded pathetic, but it was the truth. “Loved me. I didn’t recognize it.”

Jaskier frowned and gently reached up to cup Geralt’s jaw. “I- told you.” He said gently. “You asked if it was love and I said yes.” He tried to explain. By the fire. Jaskier had been speaking about more than just the smell. Geralt had known that, and he still didn’t understand what Jaskier had been trying to say. “I thought you wanted to ignore it- you didn’t say anything-” He breathed, looking up at Geralt.  
He huffed ever so slightly and shook his head, “You have to use your words. I do not understand poems and riddles like you do. Next time you want something from me, you have to ask. Directly.” He said. “Alright?”

Jaskier nodded, “Geralt?”

“Yes, little lark.” He hummed. 

“Kiss me again. Directly.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this. This is what I did instead of writing what I told everybody I was going to try to write.
> 
> I don't know what people put in the notes.
> 
> Please comment. I did work pretty hard on this?
> 
> Uh . . . go listen to The Amazing Devil. They are phenomenal.


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